


Living While Dead

by Delicate_Doll



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, Drug Use, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, The Incident and the aftermath, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 03:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delicate_Doll/pseuds/Delicate_Doll
Summary: You don't move when you wake up. You're dead after all- right? What kind of shitty corpse moves around lmao





	Living While Dead

  
You don't move for a long time after you wake up. You should, really, before people come and start looting your shit, before another drone comes to collect a body, but you don't. You can't be bothered right now. There's a lot on your fucking mind, time can chill for a little while.

It's steadily getting colder and colder, and as there's now a bigass hole in the side of your fucking hive, so are you- but you don't shiver. That would ruin the joke. Corpses don't shiver, and here you are, dead as a fucking doornail, growing colder by the second. Some peeps really went out of their way to make this happen, might as well let them enjoy it for a while right? Ding-dong the pissbloods finally fucking dead- you almost giggle, hysterical and sad- but don't. Corpses don't laugh either. Being dead hurts a lot more than you ever thought it would, and that's a shame but it's your fault anyway you guess-

Something warm and wet hits your arm, sluggishly moving across the carpet. You know what it is, and where it came from, and even know that by now he's probably long gone, but you break the act for him anyway. Opening your eyes (eye?) hurts, but you do it. Pushing yourself up onto your elbows hurts, but you  _need_ to get over to him, need to make it better, need to tell him everything's okay now- you're okay and he'll be okay too.

To your knees- now to your to feet- only now you're toppling over, nausea hitting you hard as you try and stand. The carpet was ruined long before your last meal hit it anyway- keep moving.

You try again with almost exactly the same result, hitting your head hard on the ground. _Again_. This isn't helping, you're farther away from him than you started- so you crawl.  
He doesn't push back when you gently press your forehead to his, doesn't buzz when you shakily pet down his wings. His legs are getting stiff, starting to curl inwards ever so slightly, and you wedge yourself between them and his chest. Don't look at it, caved in and wet, don't think about how it makes a sick squishing sound as you press close, he's okay _he's okay_ , just holding you, he's just holding you cause you did something stupid again Cirava, but he'll make it all better. No matter what you fuck up he always makes it better.

It hurts to scream, but once you start you can't stop.

 

___________________________

  
The hive stays busted for a long time. You have the funds to fix it, your music and channel having made you pretty okay savings actually, but you just- don't. You don't know why.

The nights are steadily dipping colder and colder- you need to do something soon, you can't handle getting sick again. The socket, despite your best efforts, got infected to hell and back, and it had you on your ass for a solid week. Not quite sure how it went away since you didn't do jack shit but cry and stew in your recoupracoon, but you know you can't count on that kind of miracle happening a second time.

Thinking things through 100% has never been your strong suit, but normally they end in a manageable sort of disaster, and so you just sorta. Deal with it, but not anymore. It's time to grow up.

You steel your nerves and order a hive supplement, getting the adjustments just right and mentally patting yourself on the back. But the funny thing is? You only  _think_ your thinking, because you just made a big mistake. A huge- Cirava sized fucking mistake. You needed to fix your hive, so you ordered something to fix it. Seemed like a good idea, easy enough to follow through too, all you have to do is wait, sign some financial shit and bam- your hives all better.

You're waiting in what's left of your living room, trying out some of the perception exercises you found online when it lands. There are a few seconds where you don't feel in charge of your body, as you watch the drone (that you fucking called yourself) dip its metallic head to step through the busted wall. When those seconds are done, you start screaming. It doesn't matter that it's a little smaller than the one that was here last, doesn't matter that it's colored differently, doesn't matter that it has a different insignia on the front, you're fucking terrified, and without a single ounce of your shit together- you  _bolt._

No time to figure out where exactly you're going (this neighborhood is full of snitches and cowards) but you're getting there fast at least, so much so that you trip over yourself a couple of times, scraping up your legs and hands. It's fine, keep moving. 

Your legs end up carrying you to a nearby gas station, busting in the door and quickly hopping the counter, tucking yourself under it. It takes too long to catch your breath, and that's scary and only makes it worse. You can actually fucking hear your breaths as they came, ragged and hard but entirely too fast. You need to fix that- so naturally- you slap both hands over your mouth. You can't hear it anymore, but you think you're probably crying now. Cirava fix-it, meet a Cirava consequence. Great this is just fucking great you're having a breakdown in a 7-11, why can't you just  _think_ for once, _stupid stupid stupid-_

Someone holds down a tissue, and without looking up you take it. Drones are all business anyway, and what the hell do you care about another troll. Not like anyone could drag you any lower than you already are. 

You cry it out for a while, and they keep passing them to you here and there. They work here, probably, and you actually hear the tell-tale beep of the scanner and a scattered few exchanged pleasantries with a customer or two. It's a weird ambiance. You sorta like it. 

After a while though, after the tissues start to pile up on your knee-unused- and your breaths somehow even out you get gently shooed out from behind the counter. It's another yellow blood, and while caste solidarity is utter bullshit, the gold on their chest grounds you a little. You're a fucking mess. Uhg. You nod at them and they nod back, still watching you carefully... should you say something? It kind of feels like you should say something.

You leave without saying anything, and you feel like a piece of shit for it.

The walk home is a lot shorter thank god, but you're arguably having a worse time, highly aware this is the first time you've left your hive and the fact you look like an utter piece of garbage. You feel like people are watching you and it  _itches_ , making you walk a little faster. You slam the door behind you when you hit your hive, sucking in a breath. The drone's gone, in its place a stack of paper and a new wall that needs some paint slapped on it. Congratulations, you just survived another night. You don't feel proud. 

 

___________________________

 

You want to start mixing again. Music has always been a really big part of your life, even more so when you found that you had a knack for making it, and your hives been quiet for almost a solid wipe now. You've been dead and in dead silence a whole fucking wipe. No drafts to play with when you're bored, no finished works blaring on the rooftop until the neighbors come to gripe, nothing slow and easy playing as you drift to sleep. It sort of makes you want to cry. 

Somehow your setup escaped the incident with cosmetic damage only, and while not having to go out and buy new shit is pretty great, it still doesn't feel right when you sit down. It  _feels_ new, an awkward sort of wrongness that you don't know what to do with. You don't know what you're supposed to do, or even what you used to do after you sit down, and you go to sleep in the chair after hours of staring at your screen. It'll be okay. 

The second try comes a few nights later, after a revelation. You listen through the entirety of your old albums, hours upon hours,  trying to find your flow again. They make you feel...not great, but better, and you'll fucking take whatever you can get. Better is enough, and you pump out a track by the end of the week. It's not as long as you normally shoot for, ranking in at a measly 1:47, but it'll do. 

 _That_ makes you feel good, making shit again. You sort of guessed it would, but having it actually pay off is so much more rewarding than you thought. You might actually post it, holy shit. 

You haven't made a reappearance on any of your accounts, and rumors are flying. Dropping a song like it's nothing would be perfect; like you hadn't even left. You'll need to wait for tomorrow, optimal posting time has long since come and gone, but you're excited all the same. This is gonna be okay, you'll just fucking get back to normal. You actually make an effort to go to sleep when the glare through the blinds gets a little too bright to stay up, despite the pep in your step. 

That pep actually carries through until the morning, letting you get up at an okay-ish hour, and dragging you to the pantry to search for something that  _might_ give you some nourishment. You end up with two pudding cups as your reward and are pretty pleased with yourself actually. Puddings fine for now, you can go shopping later. You down the first in maybe 3 seconds and pop the lid on the second as you settle in your chair, pulling on your headphones. 

You can't get through the second one. 

The unnamed song from last night is fucking  _garbage_. It's like all of your old work forced together with a potato masher came after you in the day to enact revenge for its existence. There are cords where you don't know what the hell you were thinking. There are notes scattered in places  _you know better_ than to place. There's maybe a solid 15 seconds of ambient noise that makes a headache rise up to the front of your skull. _Moron._

Where's your fucking vape you're not high enough to deal with yourself ( _dumbass piece of shit idiot fucking **loser** -_) 

You find it under your loungeplank, and waste no time fucking yourself up. Any time you can feel a coherent thought start to come through you take another hit, and for a few blissful hours, you don't exist anymore- head someplace far off and content. 

It's almost daytime before you can even stand again, and when you do your legs are on a mission, you guess, because you sure are walking somewhere. Where? Exactly? Eh, doesn't matter, so long as you can make it quick.

You find your way back to the gas station, then to the chip aisle. Oh. That's right, you're kind of fucking _starving_ actually, holy shit. The pudding woke your stomach up or something, you honest to god haven't eaten anything substantial in a long time and you're super duper feeling it now. Ow. There's sort of a lot of options here though, and your head still feels sorta. Yeah. So you spend a little while taking it all in. Do you even have your wallet? Do you even own a wallet? You don't have any pockets- so probably not -but you need it to buy shit, dammit what- oh hey. There's a 20 tucked into your binder- sweet. (How long have you been wearing this? How long has that been in there?) 

Something moves in the corner of your eye, and you have enough will to live packed in you at the moment that you  _guess_ you'll look over. You guess. 

You freeze when you see him, hit with dozens of things that make you want to hurl. His head in your lap, the two of you sprawled out on your loungeplank. His hand on the back of your neck, soothing you through a headache. The two of you getting fucked up together in a quiet alleyway after a party got a little too intense, sharing earbuds and leaning on one another. 

As the highest of your friends at cerulean, he was the first one you called for help when you thought you might be in trouble, and as such he was the first one to block you. 

He blinks, wide-eyed at you, and somethings wrong.  The guy actually looks like he's about to sprint out of the place, like he's seeing some kind of crazed animal (or a dead troll standing) on the chip aisle that'll charge him at his slightest movement, and it feeds into anger you didn't know you had. Son of a bitch.  _Son of a **bitch.**_ You needed him. You fucking needed all of them, and they- and they- and they fucking let you die. What the  _fuck._ You feel bigger than you have in a long time -like you could drag him all over Onslaught and he'd  _let_ you, you can practically taste the guilt wafting off him.  You feel your lip twitching up over your teeth, can feel your shoulders pull up and stiffen, but as you open your mouth to rip into him, something breaks. 

You're over-aware of the sign on his chest, too honed in on the camera watching the two of you, and if you look just beyond him you can see your reflection and-and... you're not that person anymore. An action has a consequence, and you only have one other eye to loose. Suddenly you're the scared, miserable creature you've been for the past wipe again, and you don't like it after a taste of what was. 

You jerk your head to the door, and he practically falls over himself as he scampers out.  You stand there long after he's gone, fuming and upset, and when something touches your shoulder (on your blind side) you jerk so hard you hit the shelf; knocking a few items down as you whip to see whatever to hell thinks you can deal with-

It's the yellow blood again. You deflate, and put your head in your hands, snapping out a " _What"._

Apparently, they assumed the two of you still had the no-talking contract up and running, as they seem a little startled to actually hear you. 

"I thought there might be a fight- I just got a little worried but I mean, obviously, there wasn't so I just wanted to, ah, y'know, make sure you were-..." They take a deep breath, trying to get their shit together. "I wanted to make sure you were okay, but, do you need help with anything?" 

You shake your head, but then remember what you were doing in the first place (chips), and what you'd  _rather_ be doing (more bug-ass), so you slap the 20 into their hand, grab two of the closest bags of chips, and hit the fucking road home. 

As you hit the door, ever so softly you hear what makes you cry the rest of the way home, like the fucking mess you are. 

"Oh- ...I'm a really big fan of yours."

 

 ___________________________

 

Two more pedigrees pass before you try to make your own shit again. The whole face area is a giant eyesore (lmao), but you found this store online that does custom accessories, and you commissioned yourself a pretty cool eyepatch. It's awkward wearing it the first couple of nights, sitting heavy on the bridge of your nose and cheek, and it took you forever to get just the right kind of knot to keep it upright, but you can already smell signature all over the thing. It's kind of fucking great. 

You run through a lot of basic bitch exercises, and while- yeah, it doesn't feel great- you're already kind of pathetic, and it helps so. Might as well. You relearn a lot of what you knew, but here and there there's a new gem of information or some weird trick about a program you use. That helps too. Your re-integration to online is slow, and it kinda hurts. You re-chirp a few older works, block kids in masse who you don't need (you don't need any of them really, you know that, but some things are hard to let go of), apologize for the hiatus. Delete the apology 20 minutes later, you're not the one who needs to be sorry, and make a thank you instead to your fans that hung around. You get questions by the dozens about your absence, but you answer a grand total of two, both vaguely worded and 70% incomprehensible. 

You still don't feel like...  _you_. Exactly. And the air in your hive is practically stained green by how much shit you're taking, but things aren't awful. Objectively. Things aren't objectively awful, you guess? You can still get wicked depressed some nights, but you have natures magic fix for that at least. 

Streaming is its own challenge, and your followers get restless after the fifth time you back out, but you eventually get it (kinda) together. You looked like a piece of shit even before you died, what the hell do they care, they're here for the music. You set a time a week away and are predictably met with some skepticism- but you insist. This times for real.  

The toilet gets what's left of your breakfast the day of, then your lunch later, but you're fucking determined. No more pussying out, your foot is down. Your foot can be down while your heads in the toilet, there's no rule that you can't have both.

You set up your camera early, having to adjust them for a while to get you angled in the frame just right. Okay. Okay, you're fine. You open the floodgates and watch as the first 100 jump in, followed by more and more. You quit watching how many exactly before you barf again, and when the deadline hits you close the gates, making your communion closed and comfortable. The chats already blowing up about your face, what happened? How the hell did you lose  _that_ much weight, it hasn't been  _that_ long? What's up with the patch? Did you change the background? What's up with that? You take a deep breath, grin, and get the ball rolling.

"Hey, this is Cirava Hermod back from the fucking  _dead_ lmao, let's get this shit popping. Two things before we get jamming, real quick I promise- Hey! I don't have a left eye anymore. No worries though- this has got to be an aesthetic upgrade right? Yeah- SlashandSmoke6726 gets me lmao-no questions on that. And second. Y'all play nice with me tonight, feeling gross and sentimental. I missed you guys."

 _Corpse Meltdown By The Slushie Machine_ is one of your biggest fucking hits. 

**Author's Note:**

> I sure do love character studies huh?


End file.
